Memoirs Of Maniacs
by I-am-The-Mathgoth
Summary: Part Three to my Series: Chapter 4 is up. I wrote Johnny, tell me if I failed at life.
1. In Which There is a Change of Pace

Memoirs of Maniacs

_(Written in a composition notebook)_

**Saturday:** Things are quiet here. On the street, I mean. I'm sitting at one of those classy tables outside the bookstore/coffee shop, watching people walk by. This really is the city of the night; it's more alive once the sun sets.

I've seen vampires, mummies, and even a very handsome looking zombie pass me by, and I must say…these are some fantastic looking creatures. I wonder if, I put on some of that eyeliner I have in my bag, if I'll fit in and get into a club. Who the hell would want to, anyway?

_(Written in red ink)_

Dear Die-ary,

I think she's gone. I mean, for good. I looked around today for her and for once, I truly couldn't find her. The mattress was there, so I know I didn't imagine her, I think.

_(Written in a composition notebook)_

**Monday:** My shoe box runs low. By low, I mean a few hundred. I think I may need to find a place to stay. I got myself a newspaper to check the personals for some place to go. Guess whose name I found? Guess who's looking for a "quiet roommate, barely acknowledgeable"? Guess!

**Tuesday:** Got a nice shower (paid for thankyouverymuch) and some Salvation Army duds, brushed my kind-a hair, did my makeup, applied that shimmery lotion stuff from CVS that smells like coconuts, and I am so fuckin ready for it. I have my room mate interview today, and if I promise the first few months rent, I'll at least be promised a place to stay for a while. Until I decide to like…leave someplace.

I write this on the bus, which is shaking so badly I doubt I'll be able to reread this later. Ooh, I cant wait!

**Wednesday:** Score! She told me to come back tomorrow with my stuff and I agreed, I just have to buy some stuff first. I need, in a list:

Shampoo and Conditioner. Not in the same bottle, that stuff sucks.

Deodorant. Something that doesn't smell like cardboard flowers.

Hairbrush.

Toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss. Vanilla mint.

Face wash and cream. Something cleansing and anti-acne is possible.

Some more undies. And socks. I have plenty of clothes that I stole from Nny's house but I need to get some detergent and wash everything one by one.

This is going to fuckin rock.

_(written in red ink)_

Dear Die-ary,

"In 24 hours, they'll be laying flowers on my life, it's over tonight. No, I'm not messing, I need your blessing and your promise to live free, please do it for me."

The house is becoming a mess again, and its getting to be much too quiet. Meat stays quiet now. I wondering if maybe, I made her vanish, and where I put her if I did. Did I do it? Did I listen?

Did I finally kill BatGirl?

_(written in a composition notebook)_

**Friday:** Had Jem stuck in my head all day. Don't know why. My hair is now a loverly shade of green; I had some extra money (my very last bit, actually) and dyed myself. No, I had my room mate do it, cuz she's an artist. I have both neon green and some awesome neon yellow bits sticking up funny, because my hair doesn't grow in evenly. She didn't ask me why I'm a bit cut up. I know I look pretty bad, but I'm healing now! We moved me in last night and I'm all settled in my very own clean bed with a nice little room with no curtains and some hand painted artwork decorating the walls, that looks like a bunch of creepy little girls.

Yes, my roommate is a little goth.

**Saturday:** Lovely little place with lovely walls and lovely art work and lovely everything, but you know…I miss my home. I miss my mattress. I miss the white noise of a television left on all night to static because he's asleep and forgot to turn it off. I miss the waking up in the middle of the night to yelling and screaming. I miss the angry days and deranged nights. I miss so much! I am a pathetic human being who deserves to burn in hell for everything I've done! And yes somehow I don't think hell would be nearly as horrible as Johnny's house.

Roommates home. We are watching some movies tonight. Johnny and me used to do that. Sometimes when he'd be half asleep I'd stretch across the couch and lay my feet on his lap and wake up the next morning stiff as hell, and he'd always be gone. Off to sulk somewhere like a baby. Like a whinny little baby. Fuckin emo.

But he was _my_ whinny little baby.

_(written in red ink)_

Dear Die-ary,

Meat spoke today and whispered things to me when I slept. He spoke of the guilt I am supposed to be feeling. And the regret. I don't feel any of that, really. Fuck!

I did, however, bring home this lovely girl with shit-brown hair and a really nice smile, and I kept that smile forever when I sliced off her lips and nailed them to wall. I can almost imagine them moving now, singing along to my MP3 player that isn't mine, but I borrowed from the Bat.

The girl looked a little like her, when bleeding. That's not the healthiest way to remember people is it?

_(written in a composition notebook)_

**Sunday:** So there's this neighbor downstairs, that black chick from the club a few weeks back. Tonja was it? Why do I wanna keep calling her that? I know that's not right.

Tenna, that's it. She keeps a cat down there. Oh, I had one, didn't I? Where'd the fuck it go?

Anyway, Devi hates her. Kind of. Love-hate relationship. Hates her because she's that thing we call a "free spirit" whereas Devi is a stick in the mud. She has thus far influenced me to do bad things. I have a tongue ring.

I have not eaten in two days, and I did not lose weight. I did lose some blood, but that doesn't concern me at all. The fact that I'm going to chip a tooth and I have no dental insurance, that concerns me. I couldn't talk for those two days either, and my mouth really hurt but…I dunno. I think it looks kinda hip. I have metal in my mouth. Lalala.

_(written in red ink)_

Dear Die-Ary,

Translation of a Polish pop song from the 80's:

"_Don't do what you're doing, I don't even want to care anymore…break the mirrors, maybe something will change…"_

The theory that nothing exists without the knowledge of it is called the Quantum Theory, or something like that. In the book, "Girl, Interrupted", Ms. Kaysen states that "you can't call an apple and apple when you want to eat it, and a dandelion when you don't. A fruit is a fruit no matter what your intentions towards it."

There is conflict here. Mostly because I didn't get to finish the book before setting it on fire, by accident, or not. But it was definitely in a fit of rage. I have a mass of blond hair down here to contend with, and Im wondering what to do with it.

I'm having issues thinking.

_(written in a composition notebook)_

**Monday: **Cenobites. Exactly. Torture as an art form. Extreme pain. Fucked with fish hooks.

I believe that Johnny was actually Pinhead without the pins. This idea intrigues me to no end and I feel I must do something to prove this. Except…I can't because Devi dated him and that grosses me out horribly. I bet she saw him naked OH GOD IT BURNS!

-----------------------------------------

_I have plans for this. Bare with me until I develop the idea a bit more. I promise more Nny-goodness. Hellraiser was a fuckin AWESOME movie. _

_Also, the song he translates (loosely) is called "Podworkowa Kalkomania" by Urszula. Download it, it's a really funky song. The song before that was called "24" by Jem. The book refence is self explanitory. _


	2. In which Normality Resumed

Dear Die-ary,

Tonight, I had a conversation with one of the girls in the back rooms. Normally, a conversation with these people result in a lot of screaming and incoherent babbles, aside from the one exception (and God rest his soul). This girl was 25 years old, with black hair and brown roots, and red eye shadow. She looked like Wednesday Addams.

I talked to her about nothing, as she was chained to my wall and really had no choice otherwise. We talked about her childhood, her loving parents, her small, barking dog, her stuffed Kermit the Frog toy that she keeps in her car still, things like that. I think there was a minor Stockholm syndrome happening. After an hour, she actually began speaking back to me. I almost forgot that it was some nobody I was actually talking to. Some nobody named Cynthia Cribbs. She wasn't as…horrified after a point. But then she looked up at me and smiled, and I saw a fleeting second of that same contempt she had given me in that little diner we met in, that small corner of her lips that twitched into a horrible little sneer. And so I snapped her neck.

Looking back, I am sure that I imagined that look of disgust.

-

**Tuesday:** Miss home. Yes, I do very muchly. I miss the smell of old wood and rot. I miss the late night food runs. The blue raspberry freezies at 1 am. The sick, horror movies. The creak of old wood. The glass on the floor. The faint whiff of cheap, dusty perfume in the air every time he walked by. The look in his eyes when he's not a murderous rage. His seriously maniacal laughter through the bowels of the house that keep me awake at night. The white noise of a TV playing snow because we never turned that off.

My cat. Squee. My mattress. My hair, my fuckin beautiful blond hair. This entire house is fuckin tainted because nothing here is my own. I only have his sweatshirt, and it still retains that comforting smell of his sickness, I sleep in it every night and pretend Im being miserable on my stupid mattress back home.

**Wednesday:** Green hair. Its looks so weird on me. Tenna and Dev, they like it, kinda. My tongue ring hurt too much, so I removed it. Im being promised a job at this book place Dev used to work at, like, three years back. This is good news, as money is something I may need…you know…as a necessity. Because life just happens to work that way. Johnny spoiled me so much; I never needed money there.

-

Dear Die-ary,

Interesting things. Found some hidden documents on my computer mere seconds before I decided to format the drive and trash the thing. A secret, hidden file deep within the roots of my drive. It was dated all the way from…last year. A good while, actually. Half-entries. I think, she hid them most of all, because they contain…secrets, I guess. Some pretty revealing things. All…about…me. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Nny, Mr. C, my name plastered all over these documents like…like "God" in the bible, though I probably shouldn't compare myself that way.

I think, Im really sure, she forgot about these things by now.

"…Instead, he dropped it and kicked me so hard in the ribs that I got winded. I couldn't catch my breath and could only hold myself and curl up, praying he wouldn't kick again. He cursed some and left the room."

Oh yes. I remember this. I was going to remove her skin and staple it to my wall that night, but I got too tired and, my head was aching as she had kicked the chair out from under me. I nearly broke her ribs because I crashed to the floor.

**Saturday: **Working at the book store. No time to write, No time to sleep. No time to eat. My god, is this how normal people live?

**Tuesday: **Bit my nails to the quick, and they hurt, badly. Half considering going home. I must stay here. No, bad Hailey, you're doing this to lead a normal life, damn you.

Cut myself on an x-acto knife opening a box of new arrivals earlier today at the bookstore, and god did it bring back memories. I smeared the blood all over this page, just because I actually began dripping. It wasn't that deep a cut, sheesh.

**Monday: **Ho hum. The day just gets better. Right now Im contemplating the fact that I have no friends. None at all. Johnny's in fucking sane, Dev and Tenna are…themselves. No one I wanna get close to. Psycho-girl and moody-goth? And I hate my hair.

**Sunday: **Big things happened.

Two days ago, I was about to leave the bookstore after a particularly horrible shift, when I happened across that kid. Squee. Lost. In the middle of the street, to boot. So I walk up to him, holding his nasty ratty teddy bear, and ask him how the hell he got there.

Im calling social services first thing when im not lazy, because that kid told me right there that his mother took him out and just walked off. So, figuring that Im such a good person, I told him we'd go for a walk back to him house. I piggy backed him after he got tired, not even 10 minutes into our trip.

"So, Todd," I said after he asked me to use his real name, "tell me, how do you know Johnny, exactly?"

"He comes over sometimes," he said into my ear, "but he left for a trip a while back and just stopped coming over so much."

"Oh."

"That's okay. Its good that he's got another friend. He breaks all my windows and gave my dad a concussion."

"…really?"

He stayed quiet for a while, as we walked through downtown.

"How do you know him?" he asked me.

"I dunno. I always have, I think."

"Nuh-uh," he said to me in that defiant way little kids do, "I remember when you moved in."

"Oh…really? I don't."

"You had long hair then. "

"Ug. I remember that. Johnny cut it all off."

"Why?"

I stopped and let traffic pass me by before talking again.

"I dunno. He was in a bad mood, I guess."

"I liked your hair. You were pretty."

I forced a laugh.

"And I'm not pretty now?"

"You look like everyone else now."

So, we walked, I walked, on in silence until we reached the burbs. I was so close, journal, so close to getting him home and me, in my home, and I…realized then that I wanted the excuse to go by my old house. My stupid little piece of crap house.

"This is my house," said Todd a little sadly when we carefully picked our way through the littered street. Johnny's house, my house, stood quietly and casually among the careful lawns and plastic flamingos.

"Um…thank you," he finished, sliding off my back.

"Yeah…see you."

"bye." He disappeared inside and I heard the sound of a dozen locks snapping closed.

And then madness ensued.


	3. In Which there are Nightmarish Things

Hi guys. I'm back for a bit. I was getting a little bleh'd by the story (theres only so much lack-of-plot you cane come up with before you kil yourself). Thanks to Lindsey for rekindling my love of Marilyn Manson._

* * *

_

_(continuation from previous page)_

I turned around to head back to my apartment and standing right in front of me was…guess who? Guess who it was, who stood in his black shirt and pants, in his long gloves, in his dark hair, in his miserably grey eyes, his raspy breaths, his heaving shoulders and shaking hands. Guess who it was that opened his mouth and exhaled slowly and deliberately, with a soft _hahhhh_ and left a trail of steam even though the air wasn't cold. Guess who it was, who pulled back his lips to grin madly at me, his teeth ready to bite through my all-too-transparent plot. Guess who wasn't fooled. Guess….fucking….who.

"H-h-hailey," he rasped, drawing out the "h" like it was its own separate breath.

"Johnny." I tried to sound brave and cool, like the people on TV meeting their enemies to fight to the death. I tried to cross my arms and stand aloof, and glare at him from over my nose as though he didn't mean anything to me. But, like I said, this one wasn't fooled.

"Aww," he breathed, running a hand slowly through his hair, "you don't look like you at _all._" He tilted his head to the side, raising it just so that I was almost looking straight up his nose. He raised a corner of his upper lip and bared a canine at me. His movements were slow and drawn out, almost as though he was drunk or something, but it wasn't until the wind blew through his coat that I could smell the deep, metallic scent of blood, and sweat, and misery, and death, and despair and guilt, and regret.

I backed off, like a dog attacked by a larger animal, and turned, ready to run. I didn't even get one foot up, as suddenly, his hand was wrapped in my yellow and green hair and I was jerked painfully off my feet and onto the ground. I was now looking up at him from the ground and his head was spinning as the concussion faded away. His pupils were still there, at least.

"I thought I imagined you," he said to me, kneeling down so he could hover over my face less than 5 inches away, "I really thought, for a while there, that you weren't real. How stupid of me, right?" He stood up and outstretched his arms towards the sky. "_How_," he shouted into the night sky, "_could I have ever thought that you weren't real?"_

I pulled myself up and started to crawl away, but he pulled me back by my sneaker, scrapping my chin on the pavement. I broke my nails digging them into the cement to try and get a better grip. But he had years of practice doing this. I yelped when his hand reached the bottom of my shirt and I was, more or less, dragged up from the ground and pulled to my feet.

Trying desperately to pull down my shirt (as I figured he meant to actually raise me off the ground, and I didn't want to fall out of my top), I succeeded in only gripping his fingers. My toes left the ground and there I was, suspended in mid air. Johnny's wide eyes were boring into mine. They were clear, watery, and maniacal.

"Let me down!" I yelled uselessly. He only grinned. Then he dropped me. I fell hard. I felt my nose pop with that sensation you get when you are winded. I felt the air leave my lungs and suddenly, I couldn't drag any oxygen in. I gasped like a fish, while he knelt down again. I heard the familiar _shwink_ of metal, and couldn't even scream with alarm.

One. Two. Three. I bled into the dirt. Four. Five. Six. I'm trying to catch my breath. Seven. Eight. Nine. And then there is dark.

_(Written with red ink)_

Dear Die-Ary,

Little girl blue/come blow your horn/the cows in the meadow/the sheep's in the corn.

_(Written As a Side Note to Hailey Santiago's Previous Entry in Red Ink)_

"I'LL ENJOY MAKING YOU BLEED AND ILL ENJOY MAKING YOU ENJOY IT"

_(Written in a lost notebook)_

Dreamt last night that I was in paradise. I was in a tree on some tropical island, where someone had built a ballroom of bamboo and I sat watching plasma screen TV and sipping mango cocktails and eating coconut bread. I dreamt I was warm, happy, and worry free. I dreamt that I was warm happy and worry free. I dreamt I was warm. I dreamt that I was happy. I dreamt I was free.

I woke up an hour ago (or so) according to my watch. I heard some yelling. I heard people speaking. I heard crying. I didn't hear anything for a while. I had no sensation in my legs, though I could kinda move them if I tried hard enough. My hair was intact. My stomach hurt me. My abdomen twisted itself like a snake and squeezed everything inside me like a vice. No, like someone had stuck a fork into me and whirled my guts around like spaghetti. I was too scared to look down but from the fact that I am alive now…I guess it wasn't fatal.

I am on the street. It is dark, and cold. I think Johnny had cut out my beating heart and replaced it with a rock. I feel heavy and sick. I am so cold. I am. So. I am…

_(Written in red ink)_

Dear Die-Ary,

I do not fear Hell. I do not fear Heaven. I fear that whatever it is that won't let me die. I fear I may be immortal.

In anycase, saw a friend on the street today. I had been horribly busy with a new project, and didn't even have time to clean myself up. I guess I must have looked like a mess to her.

I wasn't truly planning on doing anything to her. Really. But I was having a rough day.

_(Written in the lost notebook)_

"Go home," said the man to the girl the night he killed her.

_(Written on a napkin at the Café Black Cat)_

Sing for me Mockingbird

Sing me your strings

Of wild grey eyes and sallow skin

Of clutching cold fingers and serrated grin

Sing me of violences and sing me of screams

And sing me the king of nightmarish dreams.

_(written in the lost notebook)_

Wednesday: Fucking Johnny.

No that's not a declaration of action, I'm just angry right now. Really angry. Super pissed off like _whoa. _Least I'm alive. They weren't deep at _all_ my little injuries, they were just painful like a paper cut is painful if you should, say, stick the injured digit in a cup 'o lemon juice.

In _The House of Leaves_, Johnny Truant used the phrase "language of" at least three times to describe pain, sex, and something else. I thought that was poetic, the language of injury. I wonder if my Johnny has ever read that book.

Anyway, back to the action. I came home bleeding and Devi locked herself in her bedroom until Tenna was finished cleaning my stomach and upper thighs. He ruined a good pair of jeans the bastard.

I don't want to tell them what happened to me. I'd feel so retarded. _Yeah hey, I pissed your ex-boyfriend off, you know, the one that tried to kill you? Oh, yeah, I was living with him for a while and read all his stupid diaries, he really likes you, you should call him!_

I didn't mean to walk by his house. Really. I had a rough day.


	4. Moment of Reflection

_(by Hailey)_

You know I think? I think…Death. I think Im a little on the left-of-center side of life. You may have not noticed this, but I stabbed a guy with a pencil. Or pen. What was it again? Something. I also witnessed some pretty damn things over the past two years. Violence, and cold ramen soup and waaaay too much blood.

But you know what? It was really fun. It was a learning experience. Never fear death, for it is but another step of the universe. Johnny said that once with a mouthful of banana, covered in various bodily fluids. I wanted to inform him that his viewpoint on life is bullshit, and everything he does is bullshit, and that he is, in fact, a big ole steamin' pile of…you guessed it. Crap.

But you know you do stupid things when you're…like…when you know people who can kill you for calling them names. Like little babies with machine guns, almost.

But really…how would you react to that type of stuff? What would you say to placate a hyped up maniac with a ichy trigger finger (or stabby hand)? What would you do when you know he's _thisclose_ to gutting you just for the sake of making his own pitiful life seem as though he was doing something productive? How would you tell him he's crap?

You don't. Not unless you are suicidal and a masochist at the same time. Not unless you had nothing to lose. Not unless he were Johnny and you were Hailey and damnit, you just don't know how to act anymore!

Jeeze people.

* * *

_(By Johnny)_

I bet she thought is sooo easy living like this. Like its perfectly fine to know that you were some hideous monster from a Tim Burton movie, except the blood is real and the acting is good. That you just got up every morning and said to yourself, "hey, Im fucked up and I love it! Whoo hoo lets go kill something!"

Nope. Not how it works _at all._

Im not justifying myself anymore. Im not going to tell you I do it because I hurt on the inside (boofuckinhoo) and I wanna kill the bad people. Bullshit.

I do it because it familiar. Because why paint angsty crap on canvas when I can do it with a sharp object and your filthy, stinking, putrid skin and bones and blood and sinews and eyes, and vitreous humors, and tendons and ligaments, your lungs, heart, pancreas, liver, and spleen? You think that compares?

I'm like Ed Gien. He made a belt out of nipples, you know. He made a chair, a fuckin armchair, out of skin. I don't do that, do I, though? I don't get all trilled and go jerk off into my pile of dead bodies. Not my bag, baby.

I do it because I don't remember _shit_ before all this. Because I know, at some fuckin point in time 20 years back, that I was a little kid. That I built things out of legos. That I thought girls were icky and had cooties.

I do it because I can. I do it because you can't fuckin stop me. I do it because I know that you would never care about the scrawny little freak unless he was the last thing you saw before he pulled out your eyes balls and fed you them. One. By. One.

* * *

_Hi guys. I wrote this one night while bored. I was listening to "Dairy of Jane" by breaking benjamin, btw, if you care._

_Its short and bleh, but i want to write Johnny, and try to make it more or less, believable. Leave me feed back on if I accomplished that._


End file.
